


Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wants to live by the adage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt 'catch as catch can'
> 
> * * *

"It's not that I don't appreciate the gesture," Holly says.

John sags against the doorframe. It's the hottest summer New York has seen since the '50's, and he'd probably be drenched in sweat just from the walk from the car, even without lugging half his childhood room up four flights of stairs. He sighs, and his hand twitches toward his pocket for the smokes that he no longer carries, hasn't carried since Holly came home six months ago and announced that they were going to be starting a family a hell of a lot sooner than they expected. 

"But?" he prompts.

"Safety standards have changed a lot since we were kids, John," Holly says. "I was reading something at the doctor's office the other day about how the bars on some of those old cribs are so wide that a baby's head can get stuck between them. And they didn't know about lead paint issues back then—"

"Me and my sister both used this crib, Hol. I can't speak for Trudy, but there's nothin' wrong with me."

"That's a matter of opinion," Holly teases before sobering. "I just think we need to get something new, John. For your daughter."

It takes a minute for that last bit to process. Then John pushes off from the door, wraps an arm around Holly's waist and tugs her closer. His hand isn't twitching for the smokes anymore; it's too occupied now in stroking across her expanding stomach. "They’re sure?" he asks.

"Sure as they can be," Holly says with a shrug. "Looks like it's going to be Abigail after all."

"Lucy," John corrects absently.

* * *

"She doesn't need it," John says.

"Every little girl wants to feel like a fairy princess," Holly says. "It's a gorgeous canopy bed, John. She's going to love it."

"Look, there's nothing wrong with the bed she's got—"

"Nothing except all the stains from—"

"So it ain't fuckin' pretty, Holly. Put the sheets on it, you can't even tell that—"

"—your misadventures with a puppy that we were never home to watch!" Holly finishes, her voice rising. "John, we can afford it—"

"No, Holly," John fumes, " _we_ can't. _You_ can afford it. Let's be very clear on this—"

"What difference does it make who—"

"You just don't get it, do you, Holly?"

She crosses her arms at her chest, gives him that look that he's come to dread in this last year of their marriage. "No, John," she says, steel in her voice. "Apparently I don't."

He goes back to New York two weeks later.

* * *

"I'm fine with my Beretta," John says patiently.

"The whole department is upgrading, McClane," Cobb says. "It's not like you have a choice in the matter."

John recognizes a _this is my final word, don't push me or you'll be looking down the nose of yet another suspension_ when he hears one. He sighs as he pulls the Beretta out of its shoulder holster, hands over his spare clips. 

It's not that the Sig's not a nice piece. It just ain't the same as his Beretta.

* * *

"Jesus Christ, kid," John yells as his ankle twists beneath him.

"Sorry, sorry," Matt says, darting up from behind his desk.

John scowls, glancing down at the offending item that nearly tripped him up – some metal doodad with wires sticking out from every available surface. "Fuck, are you trying to kill me?"

"I don't know, have you added me to your insurance policy yet?" Matt asks with a grin. 

When John just scowls harder, he puts up his hands, and apparently is able to read John's mind, because he scrambles forward to grab the doodad before John can kick it across the floor. 

"No, really, sorry. There's just shit… yeah, it's everywhere… and I know you're all about tidiness and everything in its place and all that," Matt says. "But see, I'm taking apart about three different systems here, and the office is just really small so I've to spread everything out on the floor so I can keep track of what I've got. But wait 'til you see the kickass system I'm going to have at the end of this, John! It's going to—"

John tunes out Matt's recital of the nuts and bolts of his "kickass system", waits until it looks like the kid is running down before pulling him into his arms. "You can do whatever you want, kid," he says into Matt's hair.

"Really?" Matt asks, pulling away, his eyes sparkling. "Because if I moved all of this out to the dining room I'd really be able to work a lot more effectively—"

John closes his eyes, imagines a month of eating on TV trays in front of the tube. Pictures the way Matt's electronics will spread – they always do – from the dining room to the breakfast bar to the coffee table. Envisions nearly killing himself _daily_ on whatever computer gadget has migrated to the floor.

He sighs, tugs Matt closer, smiles. "Whatever you want, kid."


End file.
